


No one but you

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst & Humor, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Pseudo-Incest, polyamory negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 18:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10859481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: How do you break up with your father?





	No one but you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts), [Houndstar (green_animation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_animation/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: This is a modern AU. Spoilers are thin on the ground. 
> 
> Author's Note: I've had... a lot of upheaval in my life just lately, so I've needed to write somewhat different things. The Yearly Grief Fics are coming earlier, I suppose. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: With much love and gratitude to Melly, Houndstar, Spice, and, of course, my Jack, for audiencing, encouragement, helpful suggestions, and generally getting me through.

How do you break up with your father?

Porthos has been asking himself that question for... 

He doesn't have to think about how long. 

He doesn't have to ask himself that question, at all, if he doesn't want to. 

It's not *relevant* to this particular situation. 

The situation being that Porthos is: 

One: In love with his *actual* boyfriend, Aramis. 

Two: Planning to move in with him — they've already begun searching for a flat at least marginally big enough for all of their things — 

Three: Too old for. For. 

~

And this is how it begins: Porthos's hand in his Uncle Treville's — not Daddy, not yet — at the gravesite. 

They're both crying. 

They're both shameless about it, even though Porthos's grandmother is being her usual sour self about all that wasted emotion. 

All that — 

Mum is dead, and in a box, and she's being lowered into the ground. 

They've thrown in their flowers, which are slipping around on top of the shiny grey coffin, and they're crying. 

They're crying. 

Later, they sit in Uncle Treville's car with a roll of toilet paper — softer than any tissue, except for the oily ones, which they hate — and Uncle Treville tells him how it's going to be. 

How there's a court date coming up, because Porthos's grandmother is upset about Mum giving custody of Porthos to Uncle Treville, but it won't be hard. They won't be hard on *him*. All he has to do is say what he *feels*. 

"Will they try to make me live with someone else? With — with *her*?"

Uncle Treville had smiled, watery and rueful. "Not if you say you'd rather live with me, son." 

It wasn't the first time he'd called Porthos son. 

~

In the morning, Aramis makes crepes which they eat with his mother's apricot preserves. They're perfect, and Porthos tells him so. 

Aramis looks at him like *he's* perfect, like he's the best thing that's ever happened to him, like — 

He's said those words. 

Porthos has said them back. 

Porthos has let the fact that they're not, technically, exclusive, excuse his — secret. 

His secret. 

Sometimes he feels like the heroine of some old Gothic novel, or perhaps like the madwoman in the attic. 

~

This is how it begins: 

Uncle Treville, who is sometimes Daddy — when it slips out — teaches History at the local comprehensive school. Mum had taught English before the stroke — sudden, random, devastating — 

Porthos's vocabulary has always been good. 

He reads her favourite books when he needs to be with her, and laboriously translates her shorthanded notes — always on separate pages, never in the books themselves. 

Uncle Treville helps. 

He was there when she was developing her shorthand. 

Her literary *code*. 

He uses it, too. 

They talk about the books late into the night, until Porthos can sleep, and then Porthos knows Daddy stays up later to work. 

~

Aramis is in love with the first flat they look at, because of the massive windows all along the east wall. Porthos points out the window frames are cracked and have wood-rot, and that the draughts are bad enough to feel in *July*. 

Aramis tells him he has no romance in his soul. 

Porthos gets down on one knee in front of the draughtiest window and declaims a particularly sappy love-poem one of his students had plagiarized from one of the poetry scam-sites. 

Aramis's look of horror is priceless in every possible way. 

"I've got more where that came from, y'know." And Porthos waggles his eyebrows — 

Aramis smacks him with a rolled-up newspaper. 

Porthos snickers and stands up. "Hey — we can look for a place that allows pets?" 

Aramis, who'd had to give away his beloved calico Frida when doctoral programme costs got too high and he'd had to move into a smaller flat, looks at him — 

He gives Porthos one of those 'you're perfect' looks, and Porthos wonders what to do. 

Who he is. 

Where he is. 

~

This is how it begins:

The first time he crawls into bed with Daddy, Daddy stiffens and clearly has no clue what to do. 

It's not like with Mum. 

It's not like with Mum, at all. 

But Daddy is Daddy, and *asks*. 

"What... what did *she* do?" 

"Um. She um. Held me." And Porthos shifts a little. Breathes in Daddy's scents. Warm sleep and male and comfort. 

"Oh — son. I promise I'm not an idiot all the time," Treville says, and turns enough to pull Porthos close. 

"Tighter — tighter than that —" 

"Absolutely," Treville says, and squeezes him *hard*. 

Porthos sighs and settles in, closing his eyes. 

They breathe together. 

They — 

Oh, but — "Daddy..." 

"Mm?" 

"Can you sleep this way?" 

"I used to hold your mother this way, son. This is... this is good, for me." 

Porthos smiles and snuggles in closer. 

~

He tries it on. 

'Aramis,' he'll say, 'you know how we agreed we could see other people, right from the beginning?'

Or: 

'Aramis, I've been fucking my father —' 

Or: 

'Aramis... there's a reason why you haven't met my father, yet. There's. I.'

Or: 

'Please don't leave. Say anything. *Do* anything. Just — just please don't leave.'

He stays home that night, begging off on a film night with Aramis. 

He calls it work, calls it stress — 

They both know he's had trouble with depression, in the past. 

'In the past.' 

"Is there anything I can do?" 

Porthos smiles at the old picture of his mother, hanging with pride of place in the living room. 

In the glass, it looks like a rictus. 

He — 

"Porthos...?" 

"I..." 

"Porthos, should I come over?"

"I've been... thinking a lot. About my family." 

Aramis inhales quietly. "You do not talk about them much," he says, gently leading. 

"No, I... fuck. I have to... go see my Dad soon." 

"Porthos... is this about us?" 

He won't ever lie to Aramis. "Yeah. It is." 

Aramis makes a small sound — "I will go with you —" 

"No — no. I have to do this alone." 

"You do *not* —" 

"Aramis." 

"Do not use that *voice*, my Porthos, not for *this* —" 

"Don't use *that* voice, you know it always gets me too hard to think —" 

And. They laugh together. 

They laugh, and Porthos can breathe. 

He can't *think*, but he can breathe. 

"Oh, my Porthos..." 

"Yeah, love, I... this talk with my Dad is — overdue." 

"You do not sound certain of this..." 

*Fuck* — "I am. I *am* —" 

"Shh, shh, you need convince me of *nothing*, my Porthos —" 

"Aramis —" 

"Just tell me this: Are you certain of *me*." 

"Oh, fuck, I — I *love* you. I'm *in* love with you. Everything's right with you. Everything's perfect. I'll always know I was never meant to be a novelist —" 

"*Porthos* —" 

"Because if I *were*, I would've *maybe* been able to dream up someone as wonderful as you to be the man in my life." 

"Oh —" 

"Instead? You hit me like a plank to the head." 

"Well," Aramis says, and sighs *exactly* like he's throwing himself into that ratty old overstuffed armchair that Porthos has yet to convince him to get rid of. "At least I have *one* consolation for being alone tonight." 

Porthos blinks and moves to his desk. "Yeah?" 

"You cannot see the *egregiously* stupid smile on my face." 

Porthos snorts. "I can imagine it, though." 

"My Porthos? *Fuck* you." 

Porthos laughs hard. 

~

This is how it begins: 

Porthos is twelve years old, and he's known for a long time that he was too old to crawl in with Daddy every night, and now he's paying for it, now — 

He's wet himself. 

He's *wet* himself, and it's all wrong, and smells, and it's *sticky*, and — 

Oh. 

Everything Daddy had told him about puberty — about how it would hit him like a *lorry* — falls on him like a ton of bricks. And now he's blushing, wincing, trying — 

Trying to *ease* himself out of Daddy's arms — 

"What —" 

"Oh — shit — sorry!" 

"No, no, what's wrong?" And Daddy's still half-asleep, muzzy-voiced, but *worried* — 

"I — I — *puberty*," Porthos says, meaning for it to explain everything all at once and also make Daddy let *go* — 

Daddy squeezes him. "You — *what*?" 

"*Damn* —" 

"We really need to do something about your cursing —" 

"Not bloody now, Daddy!" 

"Oh — *oh*. You just had a wet dream. Didn't you." 

"*Yes*!" 

"Right — *right*. All right. We can —" And Daddy releases him *finally*, rolls over, turns the lamp on — and grins at him. "Welcome to adolescence." 

Porthos scowls. "Is this going to happen a *lot*?" 

Daddy opens his mouth — 

Closes it — 

Opens it again — and frowns. "... yes." 

"*Shit*." 

"*But*, son, the good news —" 

"What good news!" 

"The *good* news? You and I will be *alone* at least *most* of the times when it happens." 

Porthos blinks. 

Daddy raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos thinks of how many close friends he *doesn't* have — 

How many boys just don't understand grief, or good literature, or the importance of understanding history...

He doesn't go on many sleepovers. 

He — 

He nods, slowly. 

"All right?" 

"Yes, Daddy." 

"All *right*. Now off to the shower with you — I'll get you some clean pajamas." 

~

Aramis is free from bondage to the Theology department Wednesday afternoon, so they look at more flats together. 

Well, that's the surface of what they're doing. 

What they're *really* doing is Not Talking About Porthos's Family. 

They do this while discussing whether or not a given flat will have enough space for all their bookshelves *and* Aramis's art prints. 

They do this while discussing whether or not orange shag carpeting is an abomination unto the Lord. 

They do this during the secondary conversation about Aramis's armchair — 

And then, over Thai take-out at Porthos's, having decided on nothing but that they need a flat which probably only exists somewhere in Narnia, Aramis brings out the big guns. 

"You know, my Porthos..." 

"Mm?" Porthos had ordered the green papaya salad, extra spicy, and planned to torture himself with it slowly to avoid speech for as long as possible. 

Aramis looks at him. "I do not speak to *my* father." 

Shit. Porthos nods slowly. 

"You already know this. You already know *why*." 

Porthos swallows — painfully — "I do. The man didn't deserve you *or* your mother." 

"Just so. I wonder — I *must* wonder..."

Porthos squeezes his eyes shut. "He deserves me." 

"My Porthos..." 

"He... it's complicated," Porthos says, and opens his eyes. He knows he's pleading with them. 

"Do you *believe* me when I say I wish only to *help*?" 

Porthos's heart hurts, and he sets his salad down, and he takes a long drink of cherry kefir. 

"Ah, so you want to use your mouth for something other than chemical *warfare* —" 

"I want to use my mouth to *kiss* you —" 

"And quiet me?" 

"And make you make *different* noises, love —" 

"Porthos —" 

"Not my father, Aramis," Porthos says, and cups Aramis's cheek — 

Strokes his mouth with his thumb — 

"Not tonight." 

"I only wish to know how to ease this *pain* —" 

"Let me show you how." 

~

This is how it begins: 

Porthos is very proud of himself for how well he's been coping with Daddy's relationship with Anne. She's kind, and intelligent, and has a wonderful sense of humour. She's small, and blonde, and beautiful, with a smile that has jokes behind it. A little like some of Mum's smiles. She's a little young for Daddy, and so they've been keeping things quiet, but... 

But Porthos knows that they're getting serious. 

That — 

Well, a lot of the time, Daddy doesn't come home at night. And, on those nights when he *does* come home, he often brings Anne. 

Porthos doesn't go to his bed, not even when he's alone. 

Not even after the routine tossing off that had — mostly — taken care of the wet dreams. 

He stays in his own room. 

He stays in his own bed. 

He — 

He's growing up. 

That's what you're supposed to do when you're sixteen. That's — 

That's what you're bloody supposed to *do*. 

Except. 

Except that Daddy comes home alone every day for a week, and doesn't say anything at dinner — they're *having* dinner together, as opposed to Daddy fixing something for him and joking about having a 'hot date' — 

And Daddy looks... old. 

Older. 

And Anne hasn't *called* — 

And — 

And finally Porthos can't stand it, and he goes to Daddy's bed, where the linens have been changed to one of the oldest sets they have — ratty and tatty and Porthos is *reasonably* sure Daddy had these linens when *Mum* was alive —

Daddy doesn't say anything when Porthos crawls in with him. 

Daddy doesn't say anything when Porthos moves into the best position to cuddle — just holds him tight. 

Almost *painfully* tight. 

"Oh, Daddy... when? When did she —" 

"I broke up with her on Tuesday." 

"I... what?" 

Daddy's laugh against Porthos's throat is choked, half-sobbed — 

Porthos holds him *tighter* — 

"Oh, son, *son*. She wanted — she wanted to talk about getting married. Having *children*." 

Porthos's heart is — ice. Everything *inside* him is *ice*, but — "You... didn't want..." 

"You're my boy. You're my son. You're my *family*," Daddy says, and kisses his throat, his cheek, his *mouth* — 

"Mm —" 

"Oh, son, I know I'm — too obsessive, that this is too much — I should. I shouldn't let you be so —" 

"I need you," Porthos says, and *thinks* he knows everything he's saying with it. 

Daddy coughs out a breath that tastes a little like toothpaste. "I need you, too. I'll always need you. You're my —" 

"You're my Daddy. You're my — I've *missed* you," Porthos says, and he hadn't meant to say that, hadn't known he was *thinking* that — 

Daddy *growls* and rolls Porthos down onto his back — 

*Pins* him — 

"You were lonely?" 

"Daddy —" 

"Answer me." 

Porthos pants and stares up into Daddy's eyes — 

Daddy's pale, wild, *hungry* — 

He can't lie to those eyes. "Yes, Daddy. Yes —" 

Daddy growls — "I'll *never* leave you lonely again —" 

Porthos's *cock* jerks — and he moans desperately. He — 

And Daddy grins. "It's all right, son. It happens to all —" 

"Daddy, *please*!" 

Daddy blinks. "Son? What... what do you need?" 

And Porthos thinks: There's a part of me which doesn't know the answer to that question. 

There's a part of me which only wants — 

And then there's the rest of me. 

"Son?" 

And Porthos reaches up to cup Daddy's face, to stroke his stubble, and his soft beard — and to tug. 

Daddy pants — 

And pants — 

And allows himself to be pulled in, allows it, lets it *happen*, lets their lips touch — 

They shudder *together* — 

"Son..."

But Porthos is swallowing it into his mouth with this kiss, so different from everything he's gotten at school, so — 

Daddy's mouth is as big as his, and strong — 

Daddy's tongue knows what it's *doing*. 

Porthos sucks it, sucks it *hard*, tries to encourage — 

But Daddy pulls back. He — 

His eyes are wide — but still wild. 

Still *hungry*. "Son... I need you to think about this." 

"Daddy, I think this is everything I've *been* thinking about since." And Porthos blushes. He doesn't — 

He doesn't want to *say* — 

Daddy licks his lips and strokes his hair. "Since I started seeing Anne?" 

But of course Daddy knows. Porthos blushes harder and nods. 

Daddy swallows and kisses his *forehead* — 

"Daddy —" 

"This is why, son," he says, and kisses Porthos's cheeks. 

"What... what?" 

"This is the real reason why I said no. Why I couldn't — why I had to walk away from Anne," Daddy says, and kisses Porthos's mouth again — 

Kisses him deeply — 

Kisses him hot and wet and — 

And Porthos *bucks* — 

Cries *out* — 

Daddy pulls back again — 

"No! Please!" 

"Shh. There's so much I want to *teach* you, son..." 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"Let me show you. Let me show you everything." 

~

Porthos wakes up *tense*, which means — 

"Mm. One day you will *tell* your Aramis why you cannot wake up *calmly* if I wake up first." 

Because I'm afraid of getting caught. "Just paranoid, I guess," Porthos says, and rolls *off* Aramis — 

"And now I can take *deep* breaths —" 

"And I can watch you do it..." 

"And you can watch me — tell me one thing about your father?" 

"Oh, God, Aramis." 

"Please. This is *why* I woke up at five o'clock this morning!" 

"At *five*?" 

"You're a very comforting blanket, but —" 

"We — shared a bed."

"And?" 

Porthos blushes. "We — we didn't *stop* sharing a bed. I mean, I crawled in with him after my Mum died, and we talked about how they would hold each other when they were together, and I just never *stopped* crawling in with him. Except for a brief period when he was dating someone." 

Aramis looks at him. 

Porthos can *feel* him doing it. 

Aramis keeps looking. 

Porthos puts his head in his hands. 

"Are you *not* aware of familial sleeping arrangements in other cultures, my Porthos?" 

"Oh, fuck, I — I need to leave." 

"*Porthos* —" 

"No — *no*," Porthos says, rolling out of bed and throwing on the first clothes that come to hand. 

He'll be early and *messy* today — 

He — 

"Porthos, what — what *is* — oh." 

Shit. 

He doesn't stop dressing. 

He doesn't look at Aramis. 

He doesn't do *anything* — 

He doesn't do anything when Aramis rests his hands on his shoulders. He just stops.

He just stops. 

"My Porthos... how old were you when it started."

Porthos takes a deep breath, and tries very hard to do that maths. 

He just — 

He was eight when his Mum died, and then there was the shorthand, and all the time in bed, and the puberty talks, and all the advice about women, and eventually the advice about men, and — 

And — 

He really is giving Aramis the wrong idea. 

Isn't he? 

*Isn't* he? 

Aramis wraps his arms around Porthos from the back. 

*He's* naked, which means these jeans are chafing him abominably, and — 

And — no. Answer the question. 

"I was sixteen the first time we made love." 

Aramis squeezes him. "And there was... nothing? Before then?" 

"There was everything before then. There was..." Porthos shakes his head. "He was my father, my best friend, my only family, the only person I could share my Mum with, my only *friend*..." 

"He did not try to get you to socialize with others." 

"No, he did." 

"Yes?" 

"But when I balked, or complained about the other children being too immature, or not well-read enough, or too callous, or too short-sighted..." 

Aramis... laughs. 

"Aramis?" 

"No, I — I *apologize*, my Porthos, but I am thinking about what I might do if I ever found myself in your father's place." 

Porthos frowns and turns in Aramis's arms until they're facing each other — 

Aramis takes his hands and smiles ruefully at him. "I would not make *my* hypothetical child socialize with the great unwashed, *either*." 

"That's where you think we went wrong. That's — we got too caught up in each other from the start." 

Aramis cocks his head to the side. "You do not think that?" 

Porthos winces and turns away, releases Aramis's hands — 

"No, no, my Porthos, do not —" 

"I know it's too much. I *know* it is —" 

"I *know* that you cannot *think* of your father without wincing. I *know* that you take his phone calls when I am out of the *room*. I *know* that you feel he deserves you, but you have not said *why* —" 

"My memories," Porthos blurts. "I — they're all happy with him, except for the things like funerals. He's been... wonderful." 

Aramis frowns... and nods again. "He is your lover, not your abuser." 

"I..." 

Aramis raises his eyebrows. "You do *not* want to say this?"

Porthos growls and sits back down on the bed. 

Aramis sits beside him immediately. "Please, talk to me." 

"I didn't start second-guessing myself immediately. That took time." 

~

This is how it begins: 

Porthos is carefully reading the instructions on his new and *extremely* fancy electric shaver — it has more attachments than some of the sex toys he's been intimately acquainted with — and getting ready to make his beard — 

His *beard*!

— truly spectacular. 

It's going to be neat. 

It's going to be well-shaped. 

It's going to be *manly* *as* *hell*. 

Porthos grins at himself in the mirror — just a bit ruefully — 

And it's then when Daddy appears in the doorway. "So you're attacking the undergrowth today?" 

"Daddy, if I were attacking the *undergrowth*, I'd be asking *you* to do it." 

"And breaking my *heart* — I love each and every one of those hairs." 

"And not these?" 

And Daddy blinks — "Son, your beard is *wonderful*. I will admit that it's a trifle biblical at the moment —" 

Porthos coughs — 

"And I think you may have my car keys in there somewhere —" 

"*Daddy* —" 

Daddy grins. "Don't get rid of *too* much of it, son. I know it's the fashion, but..." And Daddy's eyes heat as he looks Porthos over. 

"Oh. You *like* it." 

"Didn't I just say that, son...?" And Daddy raises his eyebrows. "Should I be more... convincing?" And Daddy's fingers are *in* Porthos's beard — 

Daddy is staring at Porthos's *mouth* — 

Porthos is already *hard* in his *trousers* — 

"Fuck, Daddy, I just thought..." 

"Mm? What did my magnificent son think?" 

"I thought... you'd prefer... a younger look," Porthos says, and blushes. 

And blushes *harder*, because now he's really *thinking* about what he just said — 

About what dark little thoughts went *into* buying the shaver that would *let* him neaten up his beard just *so* — 

And Daddy is staring at him and *blinking*. Just — 

He looks *stunned*. 

*He's* blushing — 

"I — sorry —" 

"No, *I'm* sorry," Daddy says, and kisses him *hard* — 

"*Mm* —" 

"I should've cleared that up. You were a beautiful boy, son, but you're an even more beautiful man. You —" Daddy shakes his head. "I promise I don't need you to be anything you're *not*. Grow the beard to your waist. Shave it off *completely*. Keep just the moustache and wax little curlicues into it. *Do whatever feels best to you*. I promise it's what I crave." And he raises his eyebrows again and backs up, releasing Porthos's beard. "All right?" 

"I — yes, Daddy." 

"Yes?" 

Porthos grins. "Yeah." 

~

"But it was not all right?" 

"No," Porthos says, and scrubs his hands over his face. "I mean — I wasn't always asking the question of *him* — his answers were always *perfect*, and he always made me *feel* it, too — but I was always asking myself. I was always... it's just — you see the PSAs, the Very Special Episodes, all of that. You go to uni and you meet people who've been through the absolute *worst* shit you can imagine. You talk to them. You sleep with them, maybe — and you see all the scars on them. Physical and not." 

"And you wonder where your scars are." 

"Yeah." 

"You wonder what can be seen by others..." 

"Yeah." 

"You... oh, my Porthos. Did you talk to your father about *this*?" 

Porthos frowns. "No. Why?" 

Aramis looks at him. 

*Hard*. 

Porthos digs the heels of his palms in against his eyes. "Right, so, first I want to say that one of the first things I fell in love with about you?" 

"I — what?" 

"Was the way you could make yourself felt," Porthos says, and drops his hands again. "The way you could turn a look into a *Look*. The way you could turn a walk into a *stalk*. All of that. All of that." 

"*Thank* you, but —" 

"But I have to talk to my Dad anyway, and that is definitely one of the things I will bring up, since you're right, it *is* asinine that I haven't let him comfort me about it." 

"If not comfort you, then at least share your *pain*." 

"I..." But Porthos has nothing to say to that. He nods. 

Aramis nods back. "You will take me to meet your father." 

Porthos blinks. 

"We will have dinner together." 

"Aramis —" 

"We will be *excruciatingly* honest —" 

"*Aramis* —" 

"I will bring the gin." 

"... he likes single malt." 

"I will bring the gin and the single malt." 

~

This is how it begins: 

Porthos hears Daddy's breath catch just that little bit over the phone, and he knows — 

He *knows* — 

He knows every-bloody-thing and he wants to take it back — 

"You've never brought someone home before," Daddy says, before Porthos can figure *out* something to say. 

"Um. No," Porthos says, because there are slime molds solving mazes with higher IQs than his own right now. 

Daddy sighs. "Will you... tell me about him?" 

Fuck. "I love him." *Fuck* — 

"Oh, son... he must be wonderful," Daddy says, and there's a smile in his voice, a *warm* smile, a *happy* smile — 

And, right now, all Porthos wants is to be held in those strong arms. 

Pulled close in the dark — 

Porthos swallows. "He's — he's my *friend*. I mean. On top of everything else." 

Daddy *sighs* happily. "That's the way it always should be. Does he make you laugh?" 

Porthos grins, and doesn't know why he's crying, too. "Yeah, Daddy. All the time. Just like you." 

Daddy's breath hitches. "Son..." 

"I. I told him. About us." 

Daddy — laughs. It's a rough sound, and hoarse, and — 

"Daddy, are *you* crying?" 

"Not *anymore* —" 

"Daddy —" 

"Son, is your man coming to *stab* me?" 

"He's a *theologian* —" 

"Son, we've *talked* about holy wars —" 

Porthos laughs hard — 

They laugh together. 

Just — "It's always right with you, Daddy. Just always." 

"Oh, son. Is it *not* always right with him?" 

"The only times it's not right with him are when I'm lying about *you*." 

"I... hm." 

"Yeah." 

"Am I allowed to hide all the weapons before the two of you show up?" 

"But it's really *cool* when you show off with that glaive, Daddy." 

"Mm. Your curfew is still eleven." 

~

Daddy makes them his special beef stew — seasoned with, among other things, smoked paprika and brown cardamom — and serves it with fresh sourdough bread from the excellent bakery down the block. 

Aramis pours Daddy a generous measure of Macallan, then leaves the bottle close to his place setting. Aramis pours *them* double shots of Hendricks, which. 

Well. 

Not the best for their budgets, but they might as well do this in style. 

Porthos raises his shot glass — "We who are about to be terrifyingly honest..." 

Daddy and Aramis laugh and clink glasses with him. 

They drink. 

They pour. 

They drink more. 

They pour. 

Daddy eyes his glass consideringly. "No, let's eat a little first." 

They take three bites each. 

They drink. 

They pour. 

They drink. 

Aramis giggles and licks his lips — "I meant to say, Mr. Treville, that this is *excellent* stew." 

"Thank you. Please remember that the stew is in the *bowl*." 

Aramis sticks his tongue out at Daddy — 

Porthos snickers like a *boy* — 

Daddy grins. "Also — at this point, Aramis... you really should be calling me just Treville." 

Aramis swallows his bite of stew. "You eschew your first name?"

Daddy raises an eyebrow. "It's *Jean-Armand*." 

Aramis looks stricken. 

Porthos snickers. "Mum used to call him that when she wanted to pull him up short." 

"Oh, yes?" 

Daddy ducks his head and smiles, obviously looking at a memory. "My Amina-love could be *quite* stern with... the entire universe." 

Porthos snorts. "That's *right*," he says, and eats more. 

Aramis cocks his head to the side. "Porthos tells me that you were romantically involved with his mother." 

Daddy smiles ruefully. "I tried very, very hard to marry her. *Very* hard. Very — extremely hard." 

"She would not have you?" 

Daddy looks thoughtful for that question, which Porthos had somehow never — quite — asked. It had just been normal to have an Uncle Treville who sometimes stayed over with his Mum. 

It had been... home. 

"When we were having our last serious row about it, and I was demanding to know why she could say she loved me more than anything or anyone else in the world *other* than Porthos and then turn around and tell me that she had no intention of marrying *anyone* *ever*... well, that was it. 

"She didn't want to be tied-down. She didn't want to give up her freedom — even though we both knew full well that I never would've forced anything of the kind on her. She didn't want to live with me, or with anyone but Porthos and maybe a pet. She didn't want the *settled* life."

"And you did." 

Daddy gestures at the dining room they're eating in, at the papers and books teetering everywhere, the ancient weaponry leaning against walls, the bookshelves groaning, the carpeting dusty with use. "What do you think?"

Aramis looks to Porthos for a moment — and then back to Daddy. "I think you would be happier with a larger home, Treville." 

Daddy blinks. "What?" 

"I think you would be happier with a home your *son* would fit into, still." 

Daddy blushes — 

And so does Porthos. 

Aramis nods, and goes back to eating with all the studied nonchalance of a cat. Which — 

"Right, love, but —" 

"This, my Porthos, is when you talk to your father about your years of *pain*." 

"I —" 

"Years of pain? What?" 

"Fuck —" Porthos takes another drink — 

"Son? What's wrong? What —" 

"It's like this, Daddy. I spent — a lot of time second-guessing myself. Our relationship. How I felt. Whether I felt the *right* way." 

Daddy shrinks back in his chair, looking smaller and older and — 

"Daddy, don't — no —" Porthos grips Daddy's wrist before he can tug his hand away. "I was comparing myself to everybody *else* who had relationships — no. You can't even *call* those relationships —" 

"He was comparing himself to people who had been abused, and hurt, and badly injured by the adults they should have been able to trust." 

"*That* —" 

"Son. Are you sure you shouldn't have been?" 

Porthos blinks. "Bloody *yes*! You'd *never* hurt me!" 

"Son, I didn't — I'm no saint. I'm no *paragon*. I'm a man who introduced his adopted son to sex when that son was sixteen years old, after spending the preceding eight years *warping* the relationship between us to the point where I was the *only* one you felt fully comfortable with." 

That — 

Aramis swallows hugely. "I see why you say he deserves you! He is very blunt and honest and clear!" 

"Yeah, he *is*, but —" 

"I — you're canonizing me, son —" 

"And that, truly, is my purview," Aramis says, and takes another big bite. 

Daddy looks at Aramis like he's crazy — 

Porthos can't really say he *isn't* — but. "*Daddy*. You didn't bloody *warp* me. Not on *purpose*. You were doing the best you could. And — look, I already talked this part out with Aramis. It probably would've been better if I'd gotten out more and made more friends and all of that, but I didn't, and I needed you, and, in the end, you were *there* for me. The fact that I've spent years trying to figure out why I don't look and sound just like all the other abuse survivors, and if that meant I was somehow *worse* —" 

"*Son* —" 

"It's not *on* you. It's *not*." 

"It *is*," Daddy says, and stabs the table with the index finger of his free hand. "I should've checked on you more assiduously. I should've made sure you were doing all *right*. I shouldn't have just trusted —" 

"What I told you? What I told you and swore was *honest*?" 

Daddy growls, winces, turns *away* — 

Aramis tops off their glasses — 

They drink — 

*Heavily* — 

"Fuck — *fuck*," Daddy says, and growls again. "Son, it kills me that you've been *hurting*. You *have* to know that I'd take *every* pain from you!" 

"I *do* know that, Daddy. *Believe* me, I do. I just didn't know how to *talk* about this with you." 

"Because you knew I'd lose my mind?" And Daddy is laughing a little, but — his eyes are wild. 

And — "Yeah, I — yeah."

Daddy drinks, licks his lips, and drags a hand down over his face. "I probably would've tried to drag us to counseling." 

"Oh, fuck, Daddy." 

"I — no probably about it —" 

"Daddy —" 

"I still *do* want to drag us to counseling —" 

"*Daddy* —" 

"I always told myself —" Daddy grimaces. "I would say things to myself like 'you can have this, but if Porthos is ever hurting, you have to shut it down.' 'If Porthos ever needs something else from you, then that's what you'll give.' 'If Porthos —'" 

"I *didn't* need anything else, Daddy!" 

"*Son* —" 

Aramis burps discreetly and leans back in his chair. He's cleaned his plate — he always does when he's drunk. "If I may?" 

"Aramis, I — I'm sorry," Daddy says. "I don't mean to monopolize —" 

"No, no, I wanted to witness this conversation. I wanted to make certain this conversation *happened*." 

Daddy frowns — and nods. 

"I also wish to say... my Porthos — *our* Porthos — most definitely did *not* need you to stop making love to him and pack him off to a counselor who would have separated him from you *forever*." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Yeah, Daddy, *think* about it!" 

Daddy frowns and looks to both of them, lingering on Aramis for a long moment before focusing on Porthos. "What did you need, son? What *do* you need?" 

"You. I — I tried to think of ways to break it off with you, tried to think of ways to *end* things —" 

"Oh, son, if you *need* to —" 

"I need *you* — and Aramis, too. And I needed you *more* than I had you before. I needed you — I needed to have more *conversations* with you, more — I needed to talk to the people *outside* of my head more. I still need to do that." 

"Oh, yes, my Porthos, you do," Aramis says, and steals a carrot from Porthos's stew. "Especially since you mean to have both of us as lovers." 

"*Wait*," Daddy says, using that sharp classroom-voice. 

Both Porthos and Aramis look to him — 

And Daddy is breathing roughly, frowning, shaking his head slightly — he stops, and turns to Aramis. "Aramis. How *are* you." 

Aramis grins. "Moderately drunk. Very well-fed. *Vastly* intrigued by the way this evening seems to be progressing —" 

"Don't be flip. I know that's not what my son gets out of you —" 

"And do you want what he has?" 

Daddy colours, but doesn't pause before saying: "How *are* you. How do you *feel*. You've just found out that your lover — the man you're planning to move *in* with — has been in a sexual relationship with his *father* for the better part of fifteen years and wants to *stay* in that relationship while continuing to see you. Drink more if you need to, but let's lay our cards on the table." 

Aramis gives Daddy a steady look — 

A sharp smile — 

And then he pours himself another shot of gin and downs it. "I am madly in love with Porthos. I discovered, months ago, much to my chagrin, that there was nothing I would not do for him. The fact that *you* feel the same way? Is thus more comforting than not. You will not take pleasure, or joy, or happiness, or love away from your son —" 

"*Never* —" 

"So," Aramis says, and spreads his hands. "I will continue to provide these things." 

"Did you think he didn't love *you*?" 

Aramis takes a breath. "It can be difficult to believe in love that feels like my own." 

Daddy looks at *him* — but Porthos is already leaning in. "Aramis... I've never told anyone else about this." 

"Yes, I *know* —" 

"I've never brought anyone else *home*." 

Aramis blinks. "I... no one?" 

"No one. Ever. Daddy knew how I felt about you as soon as I said I *wanted* to bring you over." 

Aramis narrows his eyes and looks over the parts of Daddy's house he can see again. 

Looking for... other hands, maybe. 

Other people's touches. 

He won't find any. 

After a long moment, he licks his lips and nods. "So. You love me well." 

"*Yes*." 

"*This* is the reason — the *only* reason — why you never suggested we become exclusive." 

"Yes —" 

"My Porthos, we must begin looking for a *house*." 

"What? We can't afford —" 

"Your father will be living with us." 

Daddy chokes on his scotch. 

~

This is how it begins: 

"Well, I think it's a *wonderful* chair, Porthos." 

"Fucking hell, Daddy, there are more rips than *whole* places in that fabric!" 

Daddy gets more comfortable in Aramis's armchair. "Some of us age more gracefully than others, son. You shouldn't judge." 

~

Or it could be this: 

"You didn't tell me he was *Catholic*, son!" 

"Uh. Well. I was hoping to ease it into conversation later —" 

"He's *praying*." 

"He does that —" 

"He's praying right *now*." 

"Yeah, he —" 

"He's praying *at our food*." 

"If it makes you feel any better, he's drawing it out now." 

"... to be obnoxious?" 

"Yeah. And just, you know, evil." 

Daddy sighs contentedly. "That's all right, then." 

~

Or it could be: 

Porthos wakes up to the smell of Aramis fresh from a *bath*. He'd used the musk he'd spent way too much money on, and Porthos wants to roll in him. 

He settles for pulling Aramis right up against him, and burying his face against Aramis's throat. 

And then Daddy laughs, low and amused and *wheezing* — 

And Porthos remembers which bed he's in tonight. 

Just —

"Sleep well!" Aramis calls. 

"You, too," Daddy says, and pushes right up behind Porthos, and — 

And Porthos has never been warmer or more comfortable. 

Not ever. 

~

Or: 

Porthos walks in on Daddy teaching Aramis Mum's shorthand. It feels — 

It feels exactly as big as it is. 

He settles in to help. 

~

Or: 

Porthos walks in on Aramis straddling Daddy's lap on that godawful armchair with his arms wrapped around his neck and Daddy's hands on his hips and —

And they turn to him with smiles on their faces. Daddy's smile is hopeful and nervous. Aramis's smile is hopeful and *rapacious*. 

Their mouths are already swollen and wet. 

Porthos's trousers are off before he's halfway across the room. 

~

This is how it begins: 

Aramis is in the middle of Daddy's bed — the bed they spend the most time in, because it's massive — and Porthos is stroking his sticky belly while Daddy is kissing Aramis's temple. 

Aramis says: "I am not so cavalier about my father as I pretend to be," and they all pause. 

And prepare to listen. 

Together. 

end.


End file.
